


lend a hand

by athenasdragon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Injury, Loss of Limbs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 04:46:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19221874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenasdragon/pseuds/athenasdragon
Summary: Old book!fic transferred over from Tumblr--Aziraphale gets hurt and Crowley has to keep cool





	lend a hand

**Author's Note:**

> This was done in response to a couple of prompts I got on Tumblr in... 2017, maybe? So this is definitely book!characterizations, but I think fans of the show will get something out of it.

“Aziraphale? Is that you?” Crowley asked, hands darting swiftly from plant to plant as he administered perfectly-measured sprays of water. “Az?” he asked again when the sound from the front door did not repeat itself.

“I could use a hand, dear,” a strained voice said from the doorway behind him, and as Crowley turned around, the first thing he saw was a large red stain spreading across his white kitchen tile. He froze, horrified, as the angel grinned sheepishly and held up his decidedly shorter arm. “And I do mean that literally.”

“There’s so much blood,” Crowley said stupidly, and for the briefest flicker of a moment he was worried about the fabric of his new suit. But where years ago that thought would have held him back in vaguely worried distaste, this time he did not even register that he had thought it before he had his arms wrapped around the slumped Aziraphale. Sure enough, warmth seeped through his jacket and shirt to press against his ribs; his heart, his conjured inhuman heart, pressed back from the other side, as though by throwing itself against its calcified cage it could break free to offer comfort.

Aziraphale leaned into the demon’s embrace and chuckled. “Yes, quite a lot. A man tried to mug me on my way here—I reached out to him, physically and, of course, spiritually, and this was the thanks I got.”

“Why is there so much? Your form, it shouldn’t—”

“No, my dear, it probably shouldn’t, but it is. I’m not in any serious danger, but I was hoping to impose on you while I recover enough energy to heal myself.”

Aziraphale had hardly finished speaking when Crowley scooped him into his arms, pressing cool, smooth kisses to his cheeks and temples. “It’s what you get for being such a blessed good influence. You’re lucky I have a spare bed and that variety pack of tea you gave me.”

“Oh good, I was hoping you wouldn’t drink it before I got the chance.”

Crowley chuckled. He knew his angel too well; they both knew he preferred coffee, and so the tea had sat in his cabinet, untouched, waiting for a moment such as this. His worry was draining to relieved exhaustion with the weight of Aziraphale’s warm form in his arms.

“Sorry about your floor.”

“You can clean it when you’re better,” Crowley said drily, and they smiled at each other as Crowley carried his angel down the hallway and towards a soft bed.

* * *

 

It took several days for Aziraphale to regain enough strength to begin growing back his hand, and even then, the process was long and painful. Crowley helped as much as he could by plying the angel with tea and biscuits and records of the sort of pretentious sonatas that Aziraphale preferred, but mostly the demon was left to hover, unable to speed the process. He found himself taking out his anxieties on his plants: by the end of a week, half were under-watered and half were near drowning.

“If I’m causing undue stress, you’re welcome to take me home,” Aziraphale told him one morning.

Crowley looked up from the magazine he was thumbing through, not reading. “Why would you think you’re causing me stress?”

“You’ve been reading that for three hours.”

“Maybe I’m very interested in what Kim Kardashian is going to name her next child,” Crowley countered.

Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley’s heart leapt with the small victory. He closed his magazine and moved over to the bed, sitting gingerly so as not to disrupt the angel. Despite his care, Aziraphale immediately reached up and pulled him down for an enthusiastic kiss.

After several long seconds, Crowley broke away, somewhat breathless. “This is a totally inappropriate soundtrack,” he said, indicating the record player with a nod of his head. Aziraphale’s favorite Chopin record still played faintly.

“I like it.” The angel pulled him back down, smoothing the tension from Crowley’s back with two perfectly healthy hands. Calm radiated through him as their bodies pressed together, warm and fluid and shaped only by their respective willpowers. Over it all, the raindrop notes of the piano rolled up and down as they washed outwards from the gramophone.

**Author's Note:**

> razberrybi on tumblr did some delightful art for the first half of this: https://razberrybi.tumblr.com/post/171978074755/i-could-use-a-hand-dear-and-i-do-mean-that


End file.
